Hails
by Baka no Healthy
Summary: Crossposted from AO3 and Tumblr. A place to put all of my fragmented writings.
1. Fume

**A/N: This first piece is mostly projection. And my personal vendetta against smoking acting up again. It actually came very close to my writing style in Vietnamese, and I am adequately happy about that.**

* * *

"You seem stressed," Kano said.

"It's the stress," Ritsu replied, without much emotion to the words he used.

He knew how it would go next. Kano was not good with people until he found something he had in common with them. He mostly tried to deal with that front by persuade people into sharing a trait with him.

"Fancy a smoke?" Kano asked.

And there it went.

Ritsu hadn't swayed until then. It seemed to be common for people with parents who smoke to despise the habit; he and his brother two prime examples of that. Their dad joked about it all the time. He never really stopped. He did make a conscious effort to not smoke when together with his family, and Ritsu respected and valued that a lot. It didn't make his coughing less torturous to the ear and mind of a kid with overthinking tendency.

And maybe there lie all of his problem: he thought too much. He and his brother both had the same problem, even though it played out differently for either of them. While his brother had always been too easy to be pulled into other people's life, he had countless time overloaded himself trying to reason out of that. Reasoning, judgement, excuses.

Their dad was a happy man, even though he coughed his lungs out every night on the sofa where he sat watching late night TV.

It wasn't that Ritsu was an unhappy kid. He just thought too much. He just caught himself replaying every single thing he said during the roadtrip with his family after they'd come home and bid each others goodnight, worrying about dad's grimace,

 _(was it because of his grades? or him and his brother's tendency not to go straight home after school?)_

He just caught himself up at three in the morning, staring into his phone's screen, ministry-issued guide book open in his lap, worn with pencil lines and the pressure of his eraser, too busy thinking about the spirit bust the day after,

 _(better keep everything he knew about those spirits in mind because they couldn't beat his brother but they could hurt, him, Ritsu, the con man, people nearby, they were vicious with their power but even more cunning and sinister with their words)_

and the school he would be applying to,

 _(he knew his brother wasn't an academic person, but people had to have spoken about their family at their parents' work, they didn't mind, they never did, but he did, he did his share of minding, he did even their parents', that was all he could do, that and doing well at school and ensuring this commonplace, less-rumored-about future)_

He caught himself worrying about his brother, his parents, about their life, about their feelings at the end of the day, about their happiness,

 _(they were happy)_

about people in their life, about people in his life, about their happiness, about all of it. Nothing never really let up.

He just thought too much, and never enough about himself. Ritsu had caught himself, in his senior year, wide awake at night, realising that no direction for his future really enticed him. He liked writing, had always liked writing, but it was too unstable a job and writing school costed more than that was worth. He could get a job after high school, he was of age anyway, but that wouldn't help the talk around his parents much, wouldn't it? He could maybe do something with his power, but– no, his brother didn't allow himself to become his power, how dare he, how _dare_ Ritsu think of that, how dare he invalidate his brother's efforts like that…

He thought and thought and thought, and it never really let up. He went to a good enough college. It never let up. He thought and thought and thought.

Dad coughed out his lungs every night on the sofa while he watched TV, but he was happy. Dad never really cared about the consequences of smoking. He cared enough to keep his family away from its direct hit, but he indulged himself.

He was happy.

Ritsu sighed. He could never be his dad.

"No, thank you," he said to Kano, ignored the way the guy's face fell. "Maybe some other time…"


	2. Negative space

**A/N: Spoilers for ch.100.1.** **Worst case scenario.**

 **I am sorry.**

 **Enjoy, however you can.**

* * *

"If I ask nicely, will you do it?"

it looks up. You never noticed that it makes noises. The last time you saw it, face to face (skies, blood, fragments, fear or no fear), you didn't notice the noise.

The noise alone is overwhelming: it's not even auditory anymore. It's just vibration, humming, deep in everything around you, deep in you. It goes through everything.

it doesn't answer just yet.

You hesitate to touch it - lords know you are scared, after the last time you've seen it. You know he doesn't deserve that, the fear you keep, he should be respected but never feared. It's wrong to fear him. It's wrong to fear someone like that. Still, as a survival mechanism, the fear stays, like a pest you're ashamed to admit living in your house.

But then, one would say it's natural to be afraid of it, this thing. You try so hard not to differentiate between the two, you try so hard not to let go of that sliver of resistance you hold on to religiously, but now that you're facing it, the difference is just so apparent.

"I will ask nicely," you say, to it. the thing.

it tilts its head. Everything buzzes.

 _what can I ever do for you?_ the words (are they? are they anymore? such a _human_ thing, can it be created by this entity, this _phenomenon_ right here?) echo in the vibration. You hear it. You also feel it. You're overwhelmed, but you push through.

You speak. Slowly. It's hard to make out what you even intend to say, in the middle of this buzz. "You can," words don't come as easily as when you're in your domain - this is a stranger's place. Why are you here? "You can… give him back. To us."

You fancy seeing it blink, but you aren't sure. Your vision might be buzzing too. Can you trust what you're seeing?

"Please," you add.

it stands up. Your flight instinct almost propels you backward, but you stand your ground stubbornly. That's what you're good at, right? Being stubborn, being slow to learn, always having to do things the hard way?

The air, the ground, everything buzzes. Your eyes buzz. Statics fill up the negative space.

it walks towards you. it looks at you. You still remember the way he walked. Bizarre how such small things come back when you're desperate for an anchor.

 _you asked nicely_ , it says. Projects. Whatever it is that it does. _i appreciate that._

In your mind, he's the one saying that. Is it the walk? The way it holds itself? The way it looks at you? What part of his manners, of his personality, is still laced with this thing's fabric, that just makes it seem that much more familiar, and thus that much more different?

 _but_ , it says.

A hand's held out towards you. The fight instinct makes you grab it.

It's cold.

Beneath all the buzz and the statics and the flares and the blinks, in and out of your sight, the hand's cold and stiff.

It's cold.

It's cold.

Vibration dances on your palm.

You look at it, and it seems like you're staring, but really, what're you even looking at anymore?

it waits. it waits for you to stop, to look at it again, and for a split reason you fancy it too is trying to catch up. Like he always tried to, with all his might, even though he didn't need to, even though nobody would fault him for being comfortable with who he was, for staying the same. And it takes you seconds longer, but then you remember that it's not him, it's not, and it's far ahead of you all in this.

Seeing it so clearly lessens the fear somewhat, but you have nothing left to fill the vacant space.

 _but_ , it starts again. _but i don't have him. there's nothing i can give back to you._

it tilts its head again, and the cold hand squeezes your hand slightly, eerily similar to an act of comfort he would have given.

 _i, too_ , it says, and the world buzzes as if it's gonna burst, _i, too, am just trying to honor him._


	3. Downpour

**A/N: This fic spawns from a Terumob h/c request on my Tumblr that came just when I thought of this AU. The AU goes very slightly like the Beauty and the Beast fairytale, but Teru is a sorcerer hired to defeat the dark being inside this abandoned castle, and the Beast is kinda like ?% except it's also singled-minded on trying to bring its core (the Prince/Mob) back online by making him feel wanted/loved/safe enough to come out again. The Beast has been asking sorcerers and knights coming to kill it to become friends instead (it kills anyone who doesn't agree, of course), and thus far it has only succeeded in goading Teru into it by building up on his hero complex and insisting on his so-called duty to save everyone in distress.**

 **This fic is set very near the end of that AU's story. I might shelf this AU for further development in the future, most likely in written form, but there's no concrete plan yet.**

 **Enjoy.**

* * *

Hanazawa found the Beast on the rooftop that night. It was rare for it to go out into the open like that - it had been proven that neither sunlight nor clean air could do it any harm, but it kept away from those elements anyway. Usually, at least.

Tonight the Beast sat on the rooftop, watching the clouds gather at a corner of its piece of sky. It was destined to be a stormy night.

"You bring your staff," it said - sounds like scratches on wooden doors grated on Hanazawa's ears, even more tangled and undecipherable than usual.

Hanazawa just pushed his steps.

"It's been half a year," he said.

The Beast looked up at the moon, more and more obscured by grim clouds. "It has. It has. Days are counted, day after day after day. It's all noted down. Noted down."

Hanazawa came to stand behind it. The crystal on his staff glowed a hazy blue. "I have this feeling," he said, light as a breath, "that only a fruitless plan brings."

If the Beast could laugh, maybe it would have. Instead, Hanazawa could only see its shoulders tremble and its head duck down. No sound came from it for a minute. "Aren't you in love?" It said, long after the trembles had stopped. "Aren't you? Didn't you say…" it huffed a burst of broken branches, "didn't you say he was fascinating?"

Hanazawa's grip on his staff tightened.

"That," he said, "can never become love."

The Beast looked up at the sky again. Maybe it would have howled if it could.

"One can't love a stranger one has never talked to."

With a swift movement, the Beast stood up, just as Hanazawa raised his staff. "So that's your answer," it rasped, "so that's it. You– won't try. You won't try. You won't…"

"You pushed me to it," Hanazawa said, amidst the wind and the crunches of branches broken off of their trees. They masked the crack in his voice, enough for him too to ignore it. "It's all on you! I know it. The things I said, the things I did, the things I– we— the things _we_ create… none of it reached him."

The sound of shattered wood swept through them both. "I am him!" The Beast cried, swung its head back. "Your efforts just aren't enough yet! Not yet! You haven't loved him strongly enough yet! You haven't loved _us—_ "

"Then I am not the one," Hanazawa said, quietly, and even the wind couldn't mask the tears in his voice. "I am not the hero."

The Beast was quiet for a moment. Hanazawa fancied seeing disbelief in its eyes, but all trace of that illusion soon disappeared. When it crawled towards him, its back curved down, back mist curling around its limbs, its stare was blank.

"You are crying," it whispered, like grasses singing on a meadow, "you are crying. You are regretting. You won't leave."

Hanazawa let the tears fall.

"You want a hero," he said, staff in a crushing grip, the metal almost vibrating. His feet were planted firmly on the ground.

Rain started to fall.

The Beast pounced.


	4. Lineart

**A/N: Nonsensical TeruMob study piece, around the idea of art. Tied a bit into the current canon situation, but not clear cut enough to be actual spoilers.**

 **Enjoy.**

* * *

The sun sets over the end of the street.

I am not an artist. I don't make any kind of art frequently or passionately enough to be able to call myself an artist without feeling irked. What I do is… I guess it can be called artificial beauty. Made by the human hand with and exceptional gift, but with none of the heart.

I am not an artist, I do not have the intuition, so I quiver before art. And there is plenty in the world, much of it not even from a human effort.

Before the day I met you, I never paid any attention.

I never knew a force of nature.

That itself is a different tier of art, where not only the heart, but the entire existence lays with that immense happenstance. It only glazed me, chipped off me a piece of the arrogance, and I've learned to look from then on.

I am not an artist, but I've learned much about art since the day I opened my eyes, and the world is indeed artfully, painfully, entirely beautiful.

I remember a sunset on the street, when we saw each other by chance on our way home. The sun set at the end of the street; when you turned your back on me to look towards the light, it hugged your profile like a halo. When my focus shifted, I fancied seeing an outline of you, golden wire depicting with grandeur your image. It was a fleeting moment that faded into thin air as soon as you started walking again and I picked up my steps a beat or two to be next to you, but it was that much of a piece of art, that I am so very thankful to have noticed.

But,

but, recently that sunset keeps coming back in my sleep. It shines a golden light, hot to the touch; the outline never fades, even when I walk up to you, even when I reach towards your shoulder. It burns my hand as I grab it, and I suddenly realize there's nothing but a void framed in that golden halo.

I am scared, I am disturbed, but art it still is, and I still don't dare standing up to something that much bigger than me. I don't dare destroy what is outside of my expertise. I've learned a bit since we met for the first time.

Kageyama-kun, I am not an artist, but I can recognize art when I see it, and I know for sure I am always beneath it. I can only hope to never have to try my heartless gift against a piece of art like that again… There's no win for me in such a battle. For art, has there ever been?


	5. Oblivion

**A/N: Prompt by Anonymous on Tumblr: "Mp100 au where everybody is the same but espers are spirits with a human like body (artificial espers not inculded)"**

 **Trigger Warning for character death, suicide, body horror at some part. Beware of general pain.**

 **Enjoy.**

* * *

You die when you aren't yet one year of age. You came into life with nothing but short breaths and pain, and your eyes water too much for you to see your mother's face. Poets say pain will become a part of you, but the truth is it won't. It's an outside element that eats into your person; for someone as little (as _few_ ) as you are, it doesn't take the pain much time.

You bring the pain into oblivion when the radio your mother puts on to soothe you is still playing, a lullaby sends you on your way. The light is there, but you don't know what it is. You cry and cry and cry and the pain grows. It eats you, eats others like you, eats bigger things, eats people, and then something eats it, and suddenly it's quiet for you.

You wait for the lullaby that your mother never sings anymore.

* * *

You die when you're eight.

You can't do much. Part of it is because you're young, but part of it is just you. When your brother dreams of being a hero, you dream of being him. He goes out to explore, you go with him. He doesn't cry, you stop crying with him. He stands up for himself, you do the same.

He falls, there you follow.

You go into the dark with pain on your temple; in this place everything is clear to you. You pull the pain out of your head and push it into the heart of the people still standing, and then you push them away, far, far away, until they're out of sight.

The ambulance comes and takes your brother with them; you can't follow. You stay. The light's there, but you can't reach it. You walk the street days and nights, keep the kids safe and the aggressors away. They see you in the corner under the streetlight, hand on your temple, and know that they're in your part. Kids sometimes purposefully seek your protection.

You can't do much still, but at least you're doing something. Soon you're nothing but your actions. The rest fade off, leaving the street with _walking_ and _hand on temple_ and _push_. That much is already enough.

* * *

You die when you're thirteen.

The word _promising_ doesn't mean much to you anymore, with how many times they've been repeated around you. Maybe you're just tired of it. Maybe you think you don't deserve it. Maybe you think it's not worth all the sacrifices.

Still, you throw yourself into what you can do. You fill up your time with schoolwork and activities and student council duties, and one day you realise all you've been doing is what people tell you to do.

They never go very far with their order.

May be if your prospect's truly as promising as they say it is, you can take it as far as you want. You know what you want, right?

Months wake with the mess you make, and your mother chides you and your father hugs you, but you move on. The other kids don't really. You find one on the rooftop of one of the school's building one afternoon after a worrying text.

He doesn't fall. You do.

Impact bounces everything into reverse; you find yourself falling back up instead of further down, and when you open your eyes, you're on the other side of the face. He's standing on the edge, petrified.

You wait for him to take a step back, then you put your hands on the fence, and say, "You know these things will stay in middle school if you don't want to bring them with you, right?"

He sees you. You, standing there in the school uniform, hands on the fence, looking at him. He cries. Curls up into himself and cries his eyes out.

You stay. On the third building's rooftop, where nobody but students who want to jump go. Always on the other side of the fence, and always with the same words. It's the last choice you made yourself, and as far as you know, it's one that helps.

* * *

You die when you're eighteen.

You build high. The top is yours, always; you make sure of that yourself. People gradually depend on the order you give the place, and when in need, they step out to protect it. Your words are rules. Your presence is a blessing. Your judgement is absolute.

No one has dared to challenge your stand for as long as you remember. Not until the day you all are almost through with the life of a student. Three stabs in the abdomen and chest do you in. They get rid of your opponents as well, but you aren't present for that.

You weave the pain into your being, and you return to school the next day. No one dares challenge your place ever again. Even teachers bow down to your decisions.

You were the boss; now you're the king. You're more alive than ever; and now you're eternal too. People forget your name, and soon so do you. It's not important anymore.

* * *

You die when you're thirty.

Life is swift for you; everything goes by so fast. You're a kid, and then you're done with studying, and then you're living day by day, with nothing but your words keeping you alive. You wish you can eat your words to survive; that way you will truly be free.

Other than food and rent, nothing really ties you to the life you're leading. Not a place - you bounce from apartment to apartment, each cheaper than the last - not a person - you know many, work with many, but no face's recurrent - not even a sentiment. You go with the motion, wait to one day move on.

You don't notice when your latest apartment goes up in flame one night, along with you, the building, and some other people. For a moment time flows at will for you; you run up the stairs amidst the smoke and flame and heat, knock on every door you can reach at the same time, barge in all of them at once. You help and help and help, until there's nothing in the building but charred walls and your apartment still locked shut, and your light has long faded.

You walk among your neighbors and the firefighters, without a single person recognising you. You decide that you don't mind; now you can go. Anywhere. You follow the flames of lit candles and torches and lighters and cigarettes; anyone asks and you will lend your hand.

* * *

You die when you're thirty-five.

There are many things a person can do for their beloved. You will do virtually anything for your mother. Begging, killing, dying.

You have done a lot for her.

It's never enough.

Your mother hates you for what you do, but you push that aside. You bring home everything dime you make, and you see your deeds stacked on her chest, pressing her lungs flat. She has done a lot for you too. Begging, killing, dying.

She brings the hatred for you into oblivion. It eats her up, and it wears her skin back home everyday. It sits down on her mat and yells at you. It spits in your food and steps on your heart when you sleep.

When you go into the forest, rope in hand, it doesn't follow you. You return and eat it up. And with that, it eats you whole too.

Everybody can fall. Some falls are imminent.

You have never stopped eating since then.

* * *

You die when you're forty-one.

You've known of nothing but taking. It might be a side effect of growing up without being provided anything beside the bare necessities, but you really don't care. If you're better than other, then it's logical that you win against them in fights. And you're better - more determined, more cunning, more daring.

The people who know true greatness follow you. The rest you gradually subdue or eliminate.

At the age of twenty-five, you have a son. Strange how you don't pay much mind to the things you create yourself; maybe it's a side effect of having to make do since always. Things you create are tools, things you take are trophies.

What are you trying to prove, you don't know anymore.

At the age of forty, your son calls you and tells you he's not your fucking property. At the age of forty, you don't have a son anymore.

It's the first time you've lost something. In hindsight, maybe it's the world's way of alerting you to the incoming war, which you lose at the age of forty-one. The last thing you take is your own life, with the handgun you keep on yourself always. There's no light waiting for you.

In oblivion, you hold up your red-coated hand, and it covers the sun.

The sun doesn't grow. You do. You take and you take and you take, and one day you will have the sun in your hand and you will crack it open and the inside will be red.


End file.
